Gray Days

Some days are gray days.
Dark clouds. Heavy rain.
No umbrella can help
us stay dry. Some days,
gray days fade to blue.
Most days, raindrops fall
turning seeds into trees.
Some days, the breeze
reminds us of the cold
world we occupy. We try
to get through the gray
days. On the worst days,
we find ways to follow
the light that pierces
the darkness. We have
seen many gray days.
We know it to be tough
when smooth becomes
rough. We know that
life has its ups, downs,
and roundabouts. Life
is full of green grass,
blue skies, gray days
and we are full of life.
Look past the haze;
do not let gray days
take the sunshine away.

Under Construction

During the ride, I stay inside
the painted lines of my mind.
I pick up the speed I need
to discover what I seek.
I travel several miles
to find what makes me smile.
At times, I lose all control
of the car that drives my soul.
I find ways to drive straight
into a storm of uncertain fate.
Throughout my ride, I pass signs
that reminds me of travel times.
I know this road can be rough;
I know that I must be tough.
At times, I open windows
to teach others what I know.
Anyone can tell you that
the journey gives what you lack.
This road of dysfunction
is under construction.
Although its destruction,
I still manage to function.
I have all the time and drive
to keep dying dreams alive.

Born to Ride

I fell like I was born to ride –
to never hide. I have this feeling
that removes all ceilings.
The sky is the limit and this ride
is not finished. I was born to ride-
to travel with pride – to be outside.
Although bumpy at times,
the rocky road will decompose.
This ride can’t be loathed.
I explore and try to see
more. I plea to be free.
I can’t complain about this;
I endure pain others dismiss.
I was born to ride on any bad day;
I was born to praise the road’s groove.
This worn-down road isn’t for play,
so I ride into the night with nothing
to prove and nothing to lose.

Scars

Blood runs blue from the outside

Until curiosity builds too strong

What courses thru us takes human shape

Once a wound can be examined

A story is told of how it opened

Bravery takes a hand and moves it to feel a scar

But hope keeps one finding out more

As a finger’s path exposes each pink bump

Inconsistently weaved in one’s skin,

A story is told of how it opened.

A finger reached smooth skin

But hated how flat it felt.